Hour of Departure
by j.pembroke
Summary: In 1939, Matthew of Salisbury was working as a detective for the NYPD. When a decapitated corpse was found in Central Park with a bullet through its heart, things got complicated.
1. Of Now Done Darkness

**Chapter One: Of Now Done Darkness**

The summer of 1939 was the hottest I'd seen in more than twenty years. With the rising heat came many of the usual concerns which trouble large cities at such times, though fortunately the summer fevers which were so endemic to urban areas during most of my lifetime had been mostly vanquished by modern medicines and sanitation standards. 

Still, there were other problems. Hot temperatures meant hot tempers, and by mid-June we had already recorded 135 homicides, a record number of assaults, and six near-riots over nothing in particular. That summer was my fifth with the New York Police Department and my second as a detective. 

I was nominally assigned to the 37th Precinct in downtown Manhattan, but that summer I spent most of my time handling civil disturbances in Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Tensions in Europe were rapidly reaching their breaking point, and at times it seemed as if the air of hostility had somehow been transmitted across the Atlantic Ocean and gone on to infect the general population. Everyone was on edge, and in a place as crowded as New York City, that meant violence.

I was enjoying the rarity of a quiet day, which I'd spent catching up on long-overdue paperwork, and eating a hot dog at my desk when Patrick Flynn came up and put an end to my temporary peace. 

Patrick was a big, genial Irishman, running to fat, who could move like a striking snake if necessary. He packed a punch like a mule's kick, which many an unruly felon had discovered to his dismay. I'd been partnered with him for a year and enjoyed his company; still, the look on his face as he approached told me that my lunch break was over.

"Something happening?" I asked, stuffing the last half of my hot dog into my mouth.

"Christ, Matt. You keep eating like that, you'll choke yourself. Where do you put it all, anyway?" 

"I have a hollow leg. What's going on?"

"Homicide in Central Park," Patrick said. "Some bum found a body at the Mall, and we're the lucky bastards who get to go out in the heat and take a look." He gave me a sidelong glance. "You've got mustard on your lip."

"Thanks," I wiped it off as I rose. "You want to drive?"

"Sure." 

I tossed him the keys, fished my wallet and my cigarettes out of my desk drawer, and followed him out the door into the sunlight. 

* * *

"So, what do you think?" Patrick asked as we climbed out of the car and made our way to the crime scene.

"About what?" I asked, reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes.

"The fourth of July. You think we'll be stuck working?"

"Most likely," I said. We both flashed our badges to the uniformed officer guarding the barriers, and ducked under them. "With the way things have been lately, do you really think we'll get the day off?"

"Hell, no," Patrick said grumpily. "We'll both be at work all fucking night."

_"C'est la vie,"_ I said, as we came up to the little knot of officers and forensics guys around the body.

"Yeah, sure," Patrick said. "Excuse me." This last was to one of the crime scene photographers, who had backed into him without looking. The man excused himself and got out of the way.

"What have we got?" I asked.

"We've got a guy with no head is what we've got," said one of the uniformed officers. I heard his next words with a rising sense of dismay. "We've also got a big fucking sword with a lot of blood on it, if you'll pardon my language, detectives."

"Don't worry about it," Patrick said. "I've heard worse from my mother-in-law."

"Most of it aimed at you, I'm sure," I said absently.

"Nope. She cusses at the kids most of the time. I don't run around the house screaming and knocking shit over."  
"Yes, but you're the one who decided to have five boys," I told him. My responses were coming without thought, my automatic reaction in response to an unwelcome surprise to act normally.

"Hey, I'm a good Catholic," Patrick shrugged. "Besides, it's fun."

"Having five boys?"

"Making them." He grinned, then sobered. "Let's take a look, then."

"Yes," I said grimly. "Let's do."

My first look at the body confirmed my worst fears. The corpse wore a long coat and leather gloves despite the unrelenting heat, and the lack of blood around the body was caused by the instant cauterization of the fatal wound as the man's Quickening passed from his body to the victor. The sword that the uniform had mentioned was no murder weapon. It was the dead man's own blade, and he had gone voluntarily to participate in the duel which had killed him. He might even have been the challenger.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Patrick swore.

"You said it," I agreed, though I was appalled for different reasons. A challenge was not murder and though I personally disliked the Game, I had no right to interfere, or even to pursue the winner too actively. What disturbed me about the scene in front of us was not crime, but carelessness. Leaving corpses lying around for mortals to stumble over was not only stupid, it was negligent. We would all suffer if Immortals were discovered, which made cleaning up after one's self only mannerly.

"Has anyone found the head yet?" I asked. One of the first things I'd done upon coming to New York was to find out how many other Immortals lived there and whether or not they were likely to make my job difficult. I'd discovered that there were seven of us, including myself, and that none were active hunters. If my corpse were a stranger, that might be the end of it. If I knew the guy, it might mean that there was a hunter in town.

"Yeah," the other uniformed officer said. "It's over here."

The head was about three feet from the body, the eyes staring blankly into space. I recognized him immediately. Patrick must have seen something in my face, because he was next to me in seconds.

"What is it, Matt? You know this guy?"

"Not well. He runs an art gallery on 119th street. His name's Andrew Marks." It was the truth, as far as that went. Certainly the man's paperwork would all carry that name. I had no idea if it was actually his.

"Well, at least that saves us having to run all over town trying to figure out who he is," Patrick observed.

"Fortunately for us," I said, staring down at Marks' body.

It didn't seem right for him to be buried under a false name. I wanted to know who he really was, if only because someone should. No one should go to their grave completely unknown.

It was with that thought in mind that I went to pay a visit to one of the most dangerous Immortals in New York.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Written for the highlander50 challenge at livejournal. The prompt was 'highlander'. Unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes._

_Matthew of Salisbury, a.k.a. Matthew McCormick, is an eight hundred year old Immortal who has spent most of his life in law enforcement. He featured in the episode 'Manhunt'. _

_Feedback? Is always a good thing._


	2. Murder and Mayhem

**Chapter Two: Murder and Mayhem  
**

Connor MacLeod was rarely in New York these days. He'd been running guns and equipment to England since Austria was annexed in 1938 and was generally out of the country, so I was glad to feel his presence as I approached his door. He answered it less than two seconds after I knocked, and damn near skewered me with that katana of his. When he saw me his eyes narrowed even further, but a little bit of the tension went out of his stance. 

"Salisbury," he said flatly. "What do you want?"

"It's 'Delaney' at the moment," I told him. "Put your sword away. I'm here on business."

"Yours or mine?" he asked.

"Mine. We found a decapitated corpse in Central Park this morning."

"And?"

"_And_, all the Immortals who live locally have managed to coexist peacefully for the past five years. Unless someone suddenly developed a grudge against Andrew Marks, there's a stranger in town. A sloppy one."

"So you came to warn me." 

"I owe you one. France, remember?"

"That I do," Connor said, his eyes warming a little. "Andrew Marks, you said?"

"Did you know him?"

"I did. His name was Andrei Federov. He was a White Guard, or something similar -- an imperial loyalist, anyway." He frowned. "He wasn't very old. I think he met his first death in 1917, during the revolution."

"And his final one in Central Park." I shook my head. "This is going to be a hassle."

"I don't envy you, that's for sure" Connor said. "Personally, I'd rather be worrying about overzealous U-boat captains." He grinned. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"I'll have to take a raincheck," I said. "Federov's autopsy is scheduled for half an hour from now."

"Fun, fun," Connor said. "Have a good time, Salisbury."

"Watch out for U-boats, Highlander," I said, and started up the sidewalk.

"Matthew!"

I turned around.

"Watch your head," he said.

* * *

_Journal of Detective Patrick Flynn, Watcher - summer, 1939_: 

Ten years ago, I shot a bank robber in a standoff on Madison Avenue. That would probably have been the end of it, except that I went to the morgue a few hours later for an autopsy on another case and ran right into the bastard as he made his way out the door.

While I stood there staring like a moron, he grinned at me, put his finger to his lips, and sauntered off down the sidewalk. When I found out that the corpse had vanished from the morgue, I thought for sure that I was losing my mind.

Three weeks later, I had a brand new tattoo and one assignment: to keep Immortal duels out of departmental homicide files. It wasn't difficult. None of the Immortals who lived locally were headhunting types, and when they did fight, they generally cleaned up after themselves. The work was undemanding, and the extra pay came in handy.

Five years ago, Matthew of Salisbury applied to the NYPD under the alias of Matthew Delaney. The Watcher higher-ups assigned me to him the day he was hired, and I kept an eye on him as he breezed his way through the Academy and his first three years on patrol. When he made detective, I wasn't surprised. When I was partnered with him, I was -- especially when the Watchers told me not to bother with getting reassigned.

The first day we worked together I was sick with worry, but Matthew didn't notice a thing. He put me at my ease in about fifteen minutes without intending to do it, and within a month I'd had him over to my house for dinner. Inside of three months, my wife had taken to setting him up with girls from the neighborhood, and I trusted him as much as any partner I'd ever had.

It got tricky sometimes, following Matt around, especially when he went off on his own. The day Andrei Federov was killed, for example, he'd gone running off to talk to Connor MacLeod and, since he was running late for the autopsy, I'd had to beat a hasty retreat in order to make it back to the morgue before he did.

I'd just leaned back against the wall outside the M.E.'s office and pulled out my cigarettes when Matt arrived. He looked distracted, but he stopped to light my cigarette and one of his own before we went into the building.

"Where have you been?" I asked, as we went down the hallway to the autopsy room.

"I went and got myself something to eat," he drawled.

"And you didn't bring me anything back?"

"Do you really want to eat before an autopsy?"

"You got me there," I admitted. Of course, Matt hadn't eaten either, but I wasn't supposed to know that.

Dr. Emil Petrov, the medical examiner, looked up as we entered the room. The corpse was already stripped and laid out on the autopsy table with a sheet over him, and Petrov had a scalpel in one gloved hand.

"Gentlemen," he said. "You are late."

"I'm sorry, doctor," Matt said. "I needed to eat something before I came in here."

"You are a strange man, Delaney," Petrov said, and shrugged. "Ah, well. No matter. Now that you are here, I shall start."

"At least we didn't miss the show," Matt muttered darkly as we took up our places to either side of the table. Petrov flicked a quick glance at him through his glasses, but ignored the comment in favor of pulling the sheet down to reveal the corpse. Matt drew in a quick, sharp breath, and it was all I could do not to swear in surprise.

There was a neat, round hole right over Federov's heart.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Written for the highlander50 challenge at livejournal. The prompt was 'highlander'. Unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes._

_Matthew of Salisbury, a.k.a. Matthew McCormick, is an eight hundred year old Immortal who has spent most of his life in law enforcement. He featured in the episode 'Manhunt'. _

_Feedback? Is always a good thing._


	3. Out of Sight

**Chapter Three: Out of Sight**

_(patrick):_

I'd seen Matt angry before. Rape always got to him, and child abuse, but I'd never seen him look so grim -- or so much like an Immortal. The calm, easygoing guy that my wife liked to offer second and third helpings to had been replaced by a hard-eyed man whom I could easily believe would take a challenger's head. He was suddenly a stranger, and that made me uneasy.

"What do you think?" I asked. I needed to know what cover story he was using, if only to keep from sabotaging his efforts. Matt looked at me and blinked, and suddenly he was my partner again, familiar and comfortable.

"I've no idea," he drawled. "A Mafia execution, perhaps? Beheading is a standard fate for traitors."

_In Europe_, I thought, _ a hundred-odd years ago_. Matt never made those kinds of verbal slips. It meant he was truly rattled, something I'd never expected to see.

"Maybe," I said. It was a shoddy explanation, but it was better than the truth, at least as far as the NYPD was concerned. Of course, Matt would start thinking instead of reacting pretty soon, and if I went along with him too easily now, he'd realize it then. "I thought Marks was an art dealer, though, not a mobster. Besides, he isn't Italian. Those guys don't exactly contract out."

"No," Matthew mused. "Still, beheading is the sort of death that sends a message. Maybe he borrowed money from the wrong person."

"Loan sharks usually break legs," I pointed out. "Still, it's probably worth checking out." I glanced at my watch. "It's already seven-fifteen. Do you want to get started in the morning?"

"We might as well," Matt said. "It's not as if he's going to get any more dead."

I said goodnight to him at the door of the morgue, and after five minutes, followed him quietly.

* * *

_(matthew):_

The Highlander wasn't happy to see me again, but the bullet in Federov's chest was reason enough for me not to care. Connor took one look at my face before lowering his sword and stepping aside.

"I think you need that drink," he said.

"I'll take it, and gladly," I answered, preceding him up the hallway into his living room. I wasn't happy about putting another Immortal at my back, but as Connor MacLeod was one of the few I'd trust not to attack me from behind, I stifled my instincts.

"What's happened?" he asked, putting his sword in the corner and waving me to a seat while he himself went to the liquor cabinet. "Scotch?

"Please," I said, and accepted the glass gratefully. He poured a drink for himself, and sat down across from me. 

"Federov was murdered," I said bluntly. "The autopsy revealed a bullet through his heart, put there peri-mortem."

"And you want to know if I did it." MacLeod's eyes were flat and unreadable.

"If I thought you did it, I wouldn't have turned my back on you, much less accepted a drink from your hand," I pointed out. "I came to ask you who else was in town."

"You've mistaken me for my cousin," Connor said. "I don't introduce myself to every passing Immortal."

"Maybe not -- but you know who's passing through anyway." It wasn't a question, and MacLeod knew it. He gave me a considering look, then nodded.

"There are seven of us living in the city full-time; six, now that Federov is dead."

"That much I'm aware of."

"Raoul Montaigne is staying at the Ritz," Connor continued. "I wouldn't think that breaking the Rules was his style, but you never know. There's a man staying at the Belle Grande, too. I don't know him. Oh, and Amanda's in town."

"I didn't hear that," I said firmly. Connor laughed. Amanda was beautiful, intelligent, charming - and more trouble than a basket full of live snakes. She wouldn't have had anything to do with Federov's death, but she wasn't likely to be in town for any legal reason, either.

"Anyone else?" I asked.

"I don't think so," Connor frowned. "I have felt someone at the museum a time or two in the past week. Museums aren't Montaigne's style, and I don't think the guy at the Belle Grande would be interested either."

"Amanda," I said, rolling my eyes. "I really wish you hadn't told me that, either." Connor, however, was shaking his head.

"If it were Amanda, she'd have come out to see who it was," he said. "No, I think there's someone else in town; someone who's laying low. Whether or not he's your killer is another matter."

"How wonderful," I said acidly. Ten Immortals were too many for one city. Even without a hunter in the mix, the potential for violence was too high for comfort.

"Indeed," Connor said. "I'm leaving for England at the end of the week, and I'll be bloody glad to do so."

"That'll be a first," I smiled, draining off the rest of my drink. "To be honest, I almost wish I were able to accompany you."

"On a _smuggling_ run?" Connor laughed. "You really do want to get away."

"Wouldn't you?" I asked. We both rose, and I shook Connor's proffered hand.

"Be careful," he said.

"You, too," I told him. "Ballistics isn't finished with the bullet that the M.E. pulled out of Federov, but I can recognize a rifle slug when I see one. Whoever shot him did it at long range."

* * *

_Author's Notes: Written for the highlander50 challenge at livejournal. The prompt was 'highlander'. Unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes._

_Matthew of Salisbury, a.k.a. Matthew McCormick, is an eight hundred year old Immortal who has spent most of his life in law enforcement. He featured in the episode 'Manhunt'. _

_Feedback? Is always a good thing._


	4. Theft and Subterfuge

**Chapter Four: Theft and Subterfuge**

There was something nagging at me as I left MacLeod's. I should have gone home and thought it over, but instead I went to the Ritz. I wanted to talk to Raoul Montaigne, and I was fairly certain that I would find Amanda there as well. Where she was concerned, my visit would be completely unofficial. I knew her well enough to know that she wasn't my suspect, and I had no interest in whatever larceny she was planning.

Arresting Amanda and keeping her in jail is far more trouble than it's worth, though of course I have never told her that. She'd be far too smug about it, and I'd lose any leverage I have with her -- which, granted, is not much. I hadn't seen her since 1817, though of course her five-state crime spree with my reprobate of a student some fifteen years ago had caught my attention - and the attention of every state and federal law enforcement agency in the country.

The clerk at the front desk was at first hesitant to divulge the information I'd requested, but after I'd slipped him a dollar and flashed him my badge, he decided to cooperate. Montaigne, he informed me, was out for the evening -- but the lady who'd fit my description was in.

Amanda met me at the door to her hotel room with a sword and a smile, a contradiction that was essentially Amanda, and one that brought an answering smile to my face -- especially as she put the sword away upon seeing me.

"Matthew!" She sounded genuinely surprised, and genuinely glad to see me. "What are you doing here?"

"I'd ask you the same question, but I'm afraid of the paperwork it would generate. How are you, Amanda?"

"Doing well." She stepped back to let me into her room. "And you?"

"The same. You look as beautiful as always."

"Flatterer."

"Guilty. Cory's not in town, is he?"

The startled expression on her face was almost as good as an admission.

"Don't tell me," I said firmly.

"He's not here yet," she said.

"I don't want to know," I told her again, "but the two of you had better find somewhere else to carry out your depredations. There's a Hunter in town, and he's using a rifle before he goes for his sword." That, of course was assuming that it was the work of one man, which was by no means a certainty. Whichever it was, I didn't want either Amanda or Cory within fifty miles of the city until I'd sorted things out.

"A rifle?" Amanda asked.

"We found the body in Central Park today," I confirmed, "and I've seen enough rifle slugs to recognize one when I see it."

"Who was it?"

"Andrei Federov."

"Oh, no," she said, looking distressed. "He was such a sweet boy."

Somehow, I wasn't surprised that Connor hadn't mentioned that facet of Federov's personality.

"Sweet?"

She nodded. "He was one of Rebecca's students. I met him in 1921, while she was still training him. He never talked about it, but she told me that he was one of Tsarevich Alexei's bodyguards, and got shot during the Revolution for trying to stop one of the Red Guard from hitting the boy in the face. She said that she had to forcibly prevent him from going back to break the royal family out, and that when he heard they were dead, he broke down and wept."

I'd served kings and princes in my time whom I'd loved that well. Edward of Woodstock's death had been a crushing blow, and though I'd never admired the Romanovs, I could sympathize with Federov's loss. That he hadn't even managed to last out a mortal lifespan was distressing, but increasingly unsurprising. New Immortals did not seem to last long in this modern age. I said nothing of my admittedly gloomy thoughts to Amanda, however; instead, I complimented her on her dress and on her haircut, warned her again to get herself and Cory out of town, and left her to her own devices for the evening.

I was halfway down the stairs when the nagging sensation I'd had since leaving MacLeod's solidified itself into realization, and I damn near tripped over my own two feet in surprised dismay. Turning around, I made my way back to Amanda's room and knocked again. This time, I was met with a drawn sword and raised eyebrows.

"Forget something?" she asked.

"You could say that," I said, brushing past her into the room and closing the door. "There was blood on Federov's sword." She frowned; then her eyes widened as she spotted the anomaly that had been screaming at my subconscious all day long.

"He'd already engaged his opponent?" she asked.

"So it would appear," I answered. "Be _careful_, Amanda. The city's practically crawling with Immortals, and I wouldn't want anything to happen to that pretty neck of yours."

"Why, Matthew -- how sweet," she said, batting her eyelashes at me.

"Just get out of town, Amanda, and make sure that Cory goes with you." I gave her a significant look. "Don't get my student killed."

As I left her room for the second time, I paused in the doorway. "You haven't been near the museum this week, have you?"

"Once or twice; why?"

"Connor says one of us -- and not you -- has been there all week. You wouldn't happen to know who it was, would you?"

Amanda's sudden poker-face was answer enough.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"No one you know," she said, "but I'll vouch for him. He's not interested in the Game, and even if he were he wouldn't play it this way."

"I need a name, Amanda."

She sighed. "Robert Pierce."

"Is he another one of your confederates?" I asked mildly.

"No, darling," she laughed. "He's a scholar. He's studying some incredibly ugly piece of ancient statuary." She gave me a considering look. "Are you planning on warning him?"

"I'm planning on talking to him," I said. "I'll see about warning him afterwards."

* * *

_Author's Notes: Matthew of Salisbury is an eight hundred year old Immortal who has spent most of his life in law enforcement. He appeared in the episode 'Manhunt'. Cory Raines (episode: 'Money No Object') is one of his students; ironically, Cory is also as much of a thief as Amanda (though he tends to give his profits away to anyone in need)._

_Edward of Woodstock is better known as the Black Prince, though evidence from the time period suggests that his contemporaries would have used the former address when speaking to or of him._

Feedback? Always a good thing.


End file.
